From Holly
Today, we’re saying goodbye to our wonderful colleague Nyree. Over her time with us, she’s brought so much to the team – from her energy and creativity, to her dedication and flair for storytelling. Whether it’s been working behind the scenes on projects or bringing history to life on our tours, Nyree has truly left her mark here at The Shoebox.
We’ll miss her greatly, but we’re also excited to watch her next chapter unfold. She leaves us on the very best of terms, and we can’t wait to see the brilliant things she goes on to do.
As part of her farewell, Nyree has shared a piece of writing. Inspired by the real stories of The Hidden Street, her blog imagines the life of Susan Green, the widow who once ran the lodging (doss) house beneath our feet. You may have heard the history from our tour guides but there are a few gaps and we love to create stories to fill them when we aren’t delivering the real history to you.
From Nyree
The Shoebox is no ordinary organisation. I should’ve guessed that from their application process, which found me spitting historical facts at the top of my lungs on a wind-beaten Welsh hillside.
I’m an Actor, Writer and Singer-Songwriter away from my work as an Experience Host, so my creative energy has always gone into searching for where the story is and presenting that to people in a way that feels tangible and exciting. I aim to create worlds that people can recognise themselves in, and make them feel as if they’ve really been connected with. The Shoebox has let me do all that on a weekly basis and more; it opened a door into the past, giving me a wealth of spell-binding stories to connect to, make my own and share with others.
I’m sure I’ve learned as much from some of the brilliant tour-goers I’ve interacted with as they have from me, and I love that I curated an atmosphere which made guests feel they could share how the space was impacting on them. It’s been a pleasure connecting with you, the people who ended up on my tours. If you’re reading this, you’ve been a joy.
For my last blog at The Shoebox I’ve decided to write my own story based on the street, it’s seedy reputation and our very own entrepreneuring, morally questionable 19th Century doss-house madam: Susan Green.
Before the Shoebox building on Castle Meadow belonged to the Shoebox, it belonged to James Pond and he set up a shoe shop in the space. Before that, it belonged to Susan Green (we’re talking pre-1861). We know Susan Green used it as a lodging house and was a widow. We also know that she rented out one of her rooms to the warden of the County Jail i.e. the castle, as the castle was being used as a jail from 1345 until the late 1800s!
I’ve always been fascinated by her story. What did it mean to be a widow in those days? What was it like, as a woman, to own a lodging house in a ditch, in a street of the worst kind of repute? What kind of woman would rent out a room to the warden of a jail, bearing in mind the kind of things he might have been seeing and doing over there?
Deploying some of the rich, lilting Norfolk dialect I’ve heard smattered across my tours over the last two years, I’ve written an interpretation of what Susan’s inner monologue would sound like on the eve of- shall we say- a rather momentous occasion.
Enjoy! x
From Susan
There that’s it, sit nice and quiet now and scrub away before the hordes descend on the morrer. But Lord my hands complain, raw-red with carbolic they are. And not a mite o’difference do it make.
And that’s not as if he cares. Not as if he cares if he goes in clothed in nought but rags. But it’s the idare of it, of them people locked up there all filthy-like looking at him and thinking he en’t no different. And it’d get back to my establishment see? I know it would somehow, even prisoners has families. I en’t got much but it brings the money in s’long as I keep things of a standard as they always has been.
We all has to make a livin, and it so happens he makes his lookin after the jail. No use denyin it. There’s people as’d rather ignore the thing were there, people as’d rather pretend it were a castle as it were designed to be.
It is decidedly odd how fortunes change.
That jail up there was once a castle and now it do hold people inside who’s committed crimes the like o’which’d make you shiver. But it is what it is and he does what he does.
Oh…and it has made a difference look. That has changed the colour o’that stain, from that dark red it were when he handed it over.
He did look at you funny that one time, oh yes he did. Steel in his eye that one time. Askin questions you had no business askin Susan old girl. You are a wicked woman, wantin to know what became of someone to stain all his clothes the way it did. Oh but that were a mess. Coulder been marked as an accessory with yer snoop’s nose.
I dun’t think so. Not like there’s anyone as’d care if one o’them up there went missin. It might be it’d be a blessing to folk. It might be it’d be a blessing to the one what were killed! I should think it’s packed enough and ‘orrible enough in there- and even with us getting rid of‘em on ships.
Yes, you did do right putting that jailer up. He en’t no trouble, keeps hisself to hisself. And whilst he might be an odd sorta character, as you did think on first meetin him after John died Godblesshissoul, I’ll bet that man knows his way round a fight. That he will. And as the street’s gone to the dogs I suppose he could be useful to yer. And a good job that front winder’s covered in grime too… Can’t no-one see yer to get at yer through that dirty winder and the nets alongside. But now there en’t no use getting away on your nervy flights of fancy on your own down hare, no use at all, none, none at all old girl.
Never no use imagining what mighta been. Never no use. What is, is.
…
What bloody is: is him turning round in his grave thinking of the jailer livin in his home with his sweetheart- is the worms at his flesh and his body rotting and the wooden box suffocating- and him thinking he shouldn’t have had wood but cardboard to save the money! But I- I couldn’t’a stood for knowin he wasn’t respectable down there. I could not.
And all, all of it happening in this house. Wipin his brow and holdin the pot and cleanin the shit, and him all the time with the shame in his eyes ‘till he didn’t have the energy fer shame. And then suddenly he didn’t have no energy for life and all- and it getting fainter and fainter- Oh and it were cruel. Cruel for him to have that burst o’clarity what made him seem his old self, only to jest up and die the very next hour. I can’t stop thinkin on it! And I can’t help but make myself think on it, ‘cause I can’t forget it, I won’t forget it- it’d be disrespectful to him somehow.
But there’s hundreds lost husbands. Hundreds, it en’t nothin new. Men is dying every day and worse than what you had. You’re not the only widder in the city!…But there is them widders that would have you think the flesh is of no matter- and I do think they are wrong.
“He’s with God- his soul’s with the Lord! He’s in a better place– they say!”
Well I dun’t care about all of that. Though I do Lord, I do care that he’s in Heaven, but the best place he could be is by my side. Where he belongs. Surely it is.
There. That’s it. That’s enough of that now. Everyone dies. Upsetting yourself over nothing. You’ll ruin your face with tares. Dun’t do no good for aging, does tares. Dun’t do no good for respectability and all. And this will be a respectable establishment even with him in the ground.
I should say that stain has faded to a rust brown. A manageable rust brown.
Lord my hands.
…
It will be a respectable day on the morrer! Now think on it, old girl, what’s your competition? The Bell will have its rooms booked and that’s a fact. You dun’t have the space for cock fights down hare though, and that’s the main draw for the Bell I should think. And what a cleaning operation. Blood and feathers and worse. No there en’t no point tryin to copy‘em when they’ve cornered that market. And your bein a woman mightn’t go down too well- a woman running a cock fight? When did you hare of it?
…But what market is that though? Who is The Bell patrons? Bloodthirsty folk? Drunken folk I should think. Gentles above the mob on the claret and poor-folk in the mob on the steal. And I’ll be damned if most folk in the city don’t fall into one of those brackets. And they have got a bloody good view and all. But you yourself have a very prominent viewing platform Susan! So don’t be so down on yerself.
There mightn’t be much for the women at The Bell. And there mightn’t be much for the shy ones neither, the noble lot like…but down hare in the ditch you are a modest distance away, you can get a bloody good view but you are able to reflect quite respectably on what you’re seein up there. Not quite eye to eye with him what’s bein hanged…
“A Respectable Hangin Day”
Yes. That’s what it’ll be. Green’s Lodgings shall offer a Respectable Hangin Day. There wun’t be no fights, no drinkin, no debauchery. Jest a place where one can think about the moral seriousness of what god-awful crime has been committed, and be right-thankful one en’t been tempted down the path of moral degradation oneself. A sip-yer-tea and ‘av a glance over at the proceedings if you do so fancy kind of affair. That ole jailer can be plonked in the middle of’em and all! Oh and it’d be jest perfect. He hardly says a word so he’d never shock the patrons, he’d jest be there addin a sense of occasion to the day!…Though if he were willin to tell a nice, decently bloody story or two in the right ear I suppose I could charge for that and all…
“It en’t about bloodthirstiness hare in Green’s Lodgings, no, no, it is about Justice and right good Moralness. Mosey on down to Green’s for A Respectable Hanging Day”…
And you best find a way to make that crap sound right convincin cemin out yer mouth and all.
Scrubbin always do set you to thinkin.
And I’d say that stain has gone and come right out!